


For the Sanity of a Single Morty

by quailbirdbb



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Angst, Beth is mentioned, Gen, Jerry is mentioned, Morty is anxious, Platonic Relationship, Rick and Morty - Freeform, Rick doesn’t really know what to do, Summer is mentioned, goddammit Rick watch your words, i think, idk what possessed me to write this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-18 07:01:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21990166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quailbirdbb/pseuds/quailbirdbb
Summary: !!THIS ONESHOT TOUCHES THE SUBJECT OF ANXIETY-INSPIRED INSTANCES. PLEASE TREND CAREFULLY!!——If Rick’s adventures taught him anything, it was that nothing was ever safe. Never let your guard down.Always watch. Always listen.Always think.
Relationships: Rick Sanchez & Morty Smith
Comments: 9
Kudos: 96





	For the Sanity of a Single Morty

Morty tended to worry.

Every little thing required thought. It required caution and fear.

Because if he did not fear, then he would have been dead ages ago; whether it would have been at the hands of a touchy jellybean or shot by a wayward bullet in between the branch of the olive tree.

If Rick’s adventures taught him anything, it was that nothing was ever safe. Never let your guard down. 

Always watch. Always listen.

Always think.

So, yeah, he _‘tended to worry.’_

Morty was paranoid, and he never denied it. With a simple quip to the accuser he would move on; eyes flicking at the slightest of noises and a double take every time something moved in the corner of his eye.

Because he _should_ worry, and when you’ve seen all that he had, you’d be wary too.

Morty had been jumped by crabs the size of his fucking house; harassed in a tavern bathroom; threatened with a knife against his throat when his grandpa had a little too much to drink. 

Guard up. Knuckles bared. Keep the skin on your teeth.

The shower was the worst at night. Morty made a point to bathe when the sun was up and his family buzzed, but when the dark settled and the silence became too loud, what was he to do?

Black-stained putty bubbling up the drain and bleeding down the shower head; knives and hands cracking through the enclosing walls to stick into his back; blurs of _something_ streaking behind the curtain. 

It wasn’t impossible. No, with what he’s seen, this was very much possible.

He would never lock the door. He would never leave the shower curtain closed for long.

The ground would be splattered with water, but Morty preferred that over his own brains.

There was aways a light on in his room at night. 

May that be the lamp by his bedside, a dying nightlight, or his room’s lightbulb entirely, Morty would turn it on.

Because with the things he’d seen, you’d be worried over the dark, too.

He wasn’t scared of it. At least, that’s what he would always say. It was the _things_ that could take advantage of the dark; the things that use it for cover as it runs its claws across Morty’s back, or stare with wicked intentions from the corner of his room as a still shadow.

Keep the light on. Pocket knife under the pillow. Never face the wall.

Don’t close your eyes for long.

Because to Morty’s knowledge, the night was alive and the monster under his bed wouldn’t mind a midnight snack.

He would never lock the bathroom door, but locking his bedroom door was a must.

Open your eyes at the slightest of noises. Listen closely.

_ Don’t sleep. _

When the mornings came Morty was just as alert as he would be at night.

He would wait in his blankets for the banging of pots and pans downstairs; the shower running from across the hall; the footsteps of a drowsy family member strolling down the stairs.

Because that meant that everyone was alive. Nothing had come in the night to eat anyone head-first so nobody would hear their screams.

Morty learned the footstep patterns of each of his family members as they went up the stairs. It was crucial, he told himself, because with the millions of dimensions with their own Smith family, you never knew when one would be replaced.

_But many dimensions are so similar,_ cooed the part of his brain always running, _you wouldn’t know if they were replaced or not._

So Morty would sit at the table during breakfast and peek cautious glances at his family. Listen for anything off. 

Eat the pancakes. Slowly. Family may be watching you.

Morty would dump an obscure amount of maple syrup on his pancakes until Rick’s narrowed look stopped him. He needed the sugar. Stay alert. Eyes open. Don’t be sleepy, now.

Avoid squirrels. Avoid dogs. _Fuck_ , just avoid animals.

Because Morty remembers the intelligent, beady eyes of the squirrels and the terrifyingly knowing gazes of those fucking dogs.

Because he had reason to be  ~~ afraid ~~ wary.

With the things he’d seen those animals do, he was justified.

Morty knew he was never alone; a fact that he found no comfort in. Even when it was quiet, the silence screamed just as loudly as anything. 

He wanted to avoid the ringing in his ears and the thundering sound of his heart picking up.

But what was he to do when it happened?

Don’t look at reflections. Keep your head down in front of mirrors. Don’t look up. _Don’t look up._

Faces that weren’t his own threatened to stare back at him. Eyeless sockets leaving him wondering where they had gone; matted hair of cut skin and grime.

Soulless, but alive.

Morty’s breaths would become shallow. Movements would become fiercer. 

Never think of ‘Bloody Mary’ in front of a mirror. As far as Morty was aware, she was real. 

And with good reason.

Eventually his actions caught Rick’s attention. At least, Rick eventually mustered up the will to bring it up. Morty was sure Rick knew from the very beginning, because Rick knew everything.

And Morty didn’t. 

So what was a  ~~ terrified ~~ paranoid, wild-eyed teenager in the eyes of a fucking God?

Nothing.

Morty tended to worry about unnatural occurrences, because he’d seen such instances. 

He’d been at gunpoint by the hands of an alien; bitten by snakes in space- _fucking_ -suits.

Morty knew he was paranoid, but this was different, because it hit in a way that Summer’s or Dad’s or even Mom’s words couldn’t.

“You’re so paranoid.” Rick had said that day.

And Morty took it as accusing, because it _felt_ accusing, and Rick _looked_ accusing.   
  
  


He didn’t say anything in his defense.

Because it was true. He was paranoid, and he never thought it was a problem before, because it kept him alive. It kept him breathing.

Morty remembers the sinking feeling in his chest as Rick slunk away; the clenching and unclenching of his hands; the way his throat was too clogged up to say anything and his tongue too heavy to quip.

Because it was _Rick’s_ fault he was this way. It was the fears that built up on _Rick’s_ adventures that his grandfather only piled to. It was the lack of support and the blunt implications that Morty was _nothing_ to Rick.

Because there were millions of Morties just like him, and Rick still kept that free Morty voucher neatly tucked in the back of the ship.

And Morty was paranoid.


End file.
